


copacetic (are we behaving now?)

by MoreHeartLessAttack



Series: Jake Peralta Has ADHD [1]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: ADHD, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Depression, Episode Tag: s01e18 The Apartment, Gen, Hurt Jake Peralta, Jake Peralta has ADHD, Jake Peralta is depressed, Jake needs a hug, fight me irl, hurt Jake, i will carry this headcanon to my grave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-06-26 17:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15668337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoreHeartLessAttack/pseuds/MoreHeartLessAttack
Summary: "Jake Peralta showing any capacity for deep emotion would have been odd enough. Having her childhood best friend openly sob on her shoulder and repeatedly ask her, "What's wrong with me? Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?" while Oprah Winfrey's Legends Ball played in the background was, quite frankly, the most terrifying experience of Gina's life."In which Jake Peralta is trudging through life with undiagnosed and untreated ADHD dragging him down like 50-pound ankle weights, and things are going Not Very Well™. Jake gets depressed, quiet, and increasingly more isolated. The squad gets worried. Adventures in mental health ensue.(Alternatively: Jake Peralta 110% has ADHD and I will fight you on this to my grave.)





	1. Gina's Take

**Author's Note:**

> As someone who was recently diagnosed with ADHD at age 20 (or will be 20 in 3 days) I resonate deeply with this poor soul. I mean, I know I'm not nearly as far into adulthood as Jake but my full-time job is a constant struggle of staying afloat, my finances are already kind of a wreck, my room is a biohazard and my car is so full of junk there is literally nowhere else to sit but the driver's seat in my SEVEN PASSANGER SUV...I could go on. I've been watching this show for, like, a week, and I'm still an episode away from finishing season one, but s01e18 hit me right in the feels in a super personal way and the fic couldn't wait. This is Gina's Hot Take™. The rest of the squad is in production. Enjoy (or don't? Just relate and feel? Idk. Just read the Thing.)
> 
> (Oh. The fic title comes from the song "A Lifeless Ordinary [Need A Little Help]" by Motion City Soundtrack. Good song. A beautiful shade of struggle and friendship to match the fic. Twinsies!)

If Gina had to guess how her night was going to go, this wouldn't have been on the bottom of the list, because it wouldn't have even made the list - and that was saying something. She kept a very open nighttime schedule. 

Jake Peralta showing any capacity for deep emotion would have been odd enough. Having her childhood best friend openly sob on her shoulder and repeatedly ask her, "What's wrong with me? Seriously, what the fuck is _wrong_ with me?" while Oprah Winfrey's Legends Ball played in the background was, quite frankly, the most terrifying experience of her life. 

It wasn't like she'd _never_ seen Jake cry before. The unusual aspect was the lack of alcohol intake. And the actual real-life seriousness of his upset. All things considered, Gina would say she probably (definitely) had every right to be very, very concerned. Problem was, she wasn't really sure... _how_ to be concerned. 

Damn their mutual extreme discomfort with emotion. 

After a good five minutes of awkwardly allowing him to cry and babble many self-deprecating things all over her shirt, Gina reluctantly leaned into the semi-embrace. She rubbed one hand up and down his back and gently kneaded the other through his hair. Physical comfort, she at least kind of knew how to do (thank you, insanely overly cheese made-for-TV movies.) Unfortunately, she was probably going to have to talk at some point, too. 

"Okay, _umm_..." she hummed thoughtfully. Honestly, all his weird gasps and sobs were...painful to hear? They cut through her chest. Her heart hurt. She kind of wanted to cry, too. "Well, _okay_ , I don't know how much this helps, but you're my best friend, and I think you're really awesome and fun and funny, and I love you, and I'm...really sad...that you're...sad."

He pressed himself closer. The crying volume increased slightly. Oh, shit. She messed something up, didn't she? This kind of work was really too delicate for her. Weren't there specialists for this sort of thing? 

The things Gina said were entirely true, though, and she had to blink rapidly when her own vision began to blur, swallowing around a lump in her throat that she was pretty sure was her heart. " _Wow_ , hm. I think this is what they call empathy. Yep, I've got a bad case of empathy. Feelings are so strange. I think I'll pass on them for the rest of forever." 

A soft laugh interrupted his sobs. Gina peeked the corner of his mouth turning slightly upward across one side of a red, blotchy, tear dampened face. 

"Oh, good!" She sighed. "Yes, laughing is good. More laughing, less crying. Good, good, good."

He began to relax, the tear flow gradually slowing. Gina sat perfectly still and silent for at least ten minutes, letting Jake get himself together. When the only sounds left in the room were Oprah's words of wisdom and her friend's hitched, uneven breathing, she dared to test the waters again. 

"There's nothing wrong with you, to answer your question," she said. 

He tensed against her. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. So, you're not great with money and you're in crippling debt. Everyone has flaws and stuff. Except for me, of course. But I'm the exception, not the rule."

He laughed again. The tension in the room dropped another few degrees. Gina cleared her throat. "So, uh...you good now?"

Jake nodded slowly.

"Yeah." He took another hitching breath. "I'm good."

"Good, because you've been compressing the nerves in my shoulder for like thirty minutes and my entire arm is numb, so..."

"Oh, yeah, sorry."  


	2. Amy's Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my students gave me pink eye (I'm a preschool teacher for two year olds) so I had to stay home from work today. I might potentially have to stay out tomorrow. Bad news: my next paycheck will be short. Good news: I had time to write this and watch 11 episodes of B99 (dear God, this show is addictive. But that might be the ADHD hyperfocus/hyperfixation. Either way.)
> 
> Tomorrow is also my birthday and there is a chance my pregnant sister may have her baby sometime tomorrow, so I might end up spending the rest of my life sharing a birthday with my nephew. 
> 
> I've had a weirdly eventful day for someone who's been laying in bed with a laptop for hours. 
> 
> Anyways, this is Amy's Take. Who's Hot Take™ would you guys like to see next? Let me know! Enjoy.

Amy was worried.

Of course, that wasn't saying much. She was a natural worrier. She worried about everyone, over everything, all the time. It wasn't difficult to tell when she was particularly concerned about something; her nails would most likely be found at her teeth.

But this was different. This wasn't the kind of worry she could wave away with logic and reason. This was _real_ worry, grounded _by_ logic and reason. She knew the difference...most of the time.

The worry in question was currently seated at the desk across from her own, and he was acting very un-Peralta that morning, if you asked her.

Jake hadn't entered the precinct in his usual flair, making a grand announcement or giving the entire bullpen an exuberant greeting. He'd slipped in quietly instead - though still late, as usual - with bags under his eyes and a frown on his face. Amy seemed to be the only one to catch his arrival; no doubt noticing his presence later in the day would surprise everyone who assumed the lack of audible morning fervor equaled absence. (In all fairness, she would have been just as surprised as the rest of them if he didn't happen to sit directly across from her.)

He took his seat, dropped his messenger bag at the foot of his chair, and immediately flipped open the first case file on his desk. It was hard to tell which file was the first since they appeared to be strewn at random over piles of paper clutter and junk, but Jake didn't seem to have any trouble in deciding.

A hard case, Amy had assumed within two minutes. He didn't finish it yesterday, it kept him awake all night, and now he was here, tired and mopey, to complete it. She, for one, knew exactly how that felt.

This theory was dashed ten minutes later when Jake closed the file with a sigh, tossed it haphazardly to the other end of his desk, and turned on his computer. Perhaps still a hard case, but nothing he was too intensely focused on.

Now, nearly an hour later, he was staring rather blankly at his computer screen, occasionally clicking the mouse. His eyes were still dead and tired. She was officially very worried. Normally, when she was concerned for somebody's well-being, Amy wrote a letter listing the reasons for said concern and explaining that her probing came from a place of caring. She, unfortunately, didn't have much time to write anything on such short notice. She was going to have to wing it. (Wow! Expressing concern without a carefully thought out letter. What an adrenaline rush!)

"Hey Jake?" Amy cleared her throat, delicately closing her own case file. He made a short humming sound of acknowledgement without looking up. "Okay. Um, are you...like...are you...I mean, are you sick?"

Jake looked up at that, giving her a brief look of confusion before returning his attention to the screen. "What? No. Why?"

She cleared her throat again.

"You just seem...off, today."

His hand left the mouse. She had his full attention now. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? She couldn't tell.

"'Off'? What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Jake asked. He sounded horribly offended. Mistake! Abort, abort, abort!

"It doesn't mean anything!" Amy said quickly. "I just...you don't look..."

"Whatever."

Jake pushed his seat out loudly and stalked away from their desks. Amy felt the tips of her ears burning in embarrassment, and the unsettled feeling in her stomach increased twofold. Something was definitely wrong with him.

"That didn't go well. Damn, I should have just written a letter!"

A cursory glance at his computer as she went to retrieve her friendly-concern-letter outline from the printer revealed a half-completed game of solitaire still open on his screen. Amy fought the urge to leave a sticky note recommending he not waste valuable work hours on computer games lest Holt catch and reprimand him. She would add it to the list of concerns in her letter instead.

(Her nails were bitten down to jagged nubs by the time she went home. This was definitely indicative of nothing at all.)


	3. Charles's Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HALLELUJAH, THE WEEKEND IS HERE.
> 
> I've had an unusually crazy week. Tonight I get to eat pizza and finish off season 2 of B99. I'm v happy.
> 
> This chapter is a little off imo because I couldn't quite get Boyle's "voice" if that makes sense? It was very difficult to decipher how and what he would think, you know? Gina and Amy were easier. Their style was more specific. Charles is kind of all over the place. But after starting over several times I just rolled with it. I hope it's not too crazy OOC. I think Rosa is going to be the easiest tbh. 
> 
> Enjoy! Please leave a comment and let me know if you're liking the fic so far, it makes my heart happy.

Charles didn't mean to rat Jake out to Terry. He really didn't. It was very unlike him to betray a friend's trust; trust was first and foremost, the building block of all lasting friendships. But it wasn't like he'd promised anything, or even been entrusted with any particular information. He just...didn't like what he'd been seeing in his best friend lately.

Jake had always been a fun guy to be around. It was one of the many reasons they were friends. Charles liked having Jake around to show him how to loosen up, to not take things so seriously, to enjoy life second by second as it came to him. He also liked to think he helped Jake stay grounded, tethering him to reality when he got a little too lost in fantasy, or in the past.

This was his duty in their friendship - but Charles was ashamed to realize he hadn't been doing a great job of it lately. If Jake's recent behavior was anything to go by, he was being a pretty crappy tether.

So when he began to notice the slight, healthy roundness of Jake's midsection disappear, and the angles of his cheekbones appear sharper than ever, Charles didn't know what to do. How do you bring something like that up in everyday conversation? "Hey, great job wrangling that perp in earlier. By the way, I noticed you've been working through lunch, have you lost weight?"

He handled it the way the two of them tended to handle everything negative and uncomfortable: going out for drinks on a Friday night and pretending nothing was wrong until it was true.

This plan backfired horribly when Charles had to drag his very heavily intoxicated friend out of the bar half an hour after they arrived. Jake was usually a fun drunk. After a few drinks, he was even louder and more foolish than usual. He danced, he partied, and he made people laugh.

Jake was not a fun drunk that night. He was quiet. He barely resisted when Charles decided to call it an early night. During the cab ride home, he sat with his legs drawn up into the seat, head resting on his knees, staring glaze-eyed out the window. Any attempts at conversation were met with soft hums of acknowledgment followed by silence.

It seemed like he'd unintentionally made things worse. And if Charles couldn't help Jake unhealthily drink away his problems at the expense of both their livers...honestly, he wasn't sure what he could do. Probably nothing.

Except panic and break his friend's trust by sharing everything with somebody he saw as more qualified to handle the situation. That was apparently the last resort. He tried not to think about the fact that it was also only the second resort, because that was just sad.

Come Monday, when Terry greeted him at the coffee maker with a polite good morning, Charles broached the situation as carefully and naturally as possible.

"Jakehasntbeeneatingandheslostweightandhegotreallydrunktheothernightanddidntsingshakiraonce!"

Nailed it.

Terry frowned. "Whoa, whoa, slow down... _what_ about Shakira?"

Charles took a deep breath and forced himself to leave space between his words.

"Jake's a fun drunk, you know this," he said.

"Of course," Terry confirmed.

"But on Friday, he got drunk and he didn't even try to sing karaoke, or say anything I could embarrass him with later, or anything!"

"Boyle, how the hell am I supposed to respond to that?"

"It's not just the Shakira thing. He's lost weight, too! He's been working through lunch. And he doesn't smile anymore. And the precinct is too quiet. Something's not right!"

Terry sighed heavily as he set his coffee mug down.

"I know," he admitted. "Peralta hasn't been himself lately. I'm seeing it, too. I caught Amy writing him a concern letter the other day, and you know she doesn't just write those for anyone."

An Amy Santiago concern letter? That was exactly the confirmation he'd been fearing.

"Does the Captain know?" Charles asked.

"He hasn't said anything," Terry shrugged. "But Jake hasn't exactly been productive lately. I can't imagine he hasn't noticed. Just...keep an eye on him, alright? I might have to bring this up with Captain Holt if he doesn't get back into the swing of things soon."

Silence settled in the room, and guilt settled in the pit of Charles' stomach, as Hitchcock shuffled into the break room and Terry returned his attention to the coffee. Maybe he hadn't _meant_ to rat out his coworker and friend to a superior, but "it's the thought that counts" only applied to the Christmas presents he gave his mother.

Gosh, he really was a crappy tether.


	4. Terry's Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life update: still no baby nephew, but he's due in three days. I've had a surprisingly productive weekend. I have those ol' Sunday night blues of realizing I have to go back to work in the morning but that's okay because B99 heals all wounds.
> 
> This is honestly probably my favorite chapter so far but I'm psyched to write Rosa's next tbh. Please enjoy this chapter, leave a comment with your thoughts!

It wasn't the increase in time spent playing solitaire (which had always been a problem), the sleep deprivation and weight loss, or even his talk with Boyle that tipped Terry off to Peralta's uncharacteristic behavior as of late - though those things did contribute. What really got his attention was the bullpen growing more quiet with each passing day. It was disturbing. Once it finally hit him that it wasn't the bullpen itself, but Peralta who had gone silent, there really was no getting around it: something was wrong. For that man to be so quiet, something _had_ to be.

The question was, what could he do about it? ( _Was_ there anything he could do about it?)

No, he assumed at first. This was a personal issue; the detective was going through a slump or something, but it wasn't Terry's job to get involved. Jake was an adult. He would figure it out.

Terry maintained this stance for several weeks...until he noticed the way the rest of the squad was looking at Jake.

Throughout the day, Boyle shot eyebrow-furrowed looks over his shoulder at his friend's unusually quiet desk. Rosa's gaze lingered on Peralta often, though as usual, her expression didn't waver - but she dropped packs of crackers from the vending machine on his desk when she passed by sometimes, particularly when she came back from lunch and he was still hunched over a case file with his fingers at his temples. Peralta's phone blew up every now and again with a series of dinging notifications, and Gina looked disappointed and utterly offended when he sighed audibly and put the device on silent. Amy wrote him a concern letter (this was the biggest deal of all; Santiago didn't mess around with her concern letters.)

Brilliant as he was in the field, the interrogation room, and the clock-ticking-quickquickquick-figureitout rush of identifying a perp, it had always been difficult to get Jake to fully engage in the more trivial aspects of detective work. Making him attend briefings and complete paperwork once the fun part of case-solving was over had always taken an extraordinary amount of effort on Terry's part. Nowadays, it was nearly impossible. He used to groan and sigh his way through paperwork, interrupting himself every five minutes to work on some other unnecessary, unrequested task, but he'd always gotten it done (eventually.)

Now he just...didn't do it. He stared blankly at the stacks of paper as they sat before him, uncomprehending of the work, until he finally gave up and opened - yes, yet another game of solitaire. He let the files build up until Holt scolded him into action.

And that was the flip side - once he got going, the detective could not be bothered for anything.

Last week, he'd stayed three hours after his shift was over, violently shushing anyone who tried to point out the time. When the pile of forms in front of him were finally finished, filed, and ready to turn in, Jake had allowed himself a small smile of victory. The smile faded when he caught sight of the clock and had to do a double take. He blinked in disbelief at the time for several seconds before quietly gathering his things to leave. Terry had watched the scene from a distance, something uncomfortable settling down in his chest.

Peralta arrived every day with dark bags under his eyes and a frown on his face. He didn't speak unless spoken to, he didn't fool around (solitaire aside), he didn't take breaks. He was sad, irritable, quiet, and so explicitly not himself.

There came a point in this job where personal issues became professional issues, particularly if they put you at risk of harm in the field. Looking back on the last month or so, Terry couldn't find it in him to deny it any longer: Jake Peralta was at risk.

That made his private issues professional issues, which made it Terry's job to get involved. He didn't like the idea of getting too deeply invested in somebody else's life when he hadn't been invited to do so, but what he liked significantly less was the idea of a shot, stabbed, or otherwise mortally wounded Jake in a situation that Terry could have personally prevented.

He was planning to talk to Jake one on one, man to man, to get to the bottom of things. That was always the best approach.

But then Terry saw the way Jake reacted in anger when Amy asked if he was feeling okay. He saw the way Boyle opened his mouth to say something to Jake several times throughout the day after their talk, but contained himself for fear of making his coworker angry. And it hit Terry that, as much as he preferred it, the direct approach would probably earn him nothing but scorn, and dig Peralta even deeper into this mess of his. He took a leaf out of Boyle's book and did what he had to do.

He went to Holt.

The Captain stared with raised eyebrows at Terry as he shut the door to his superior's office and pulled the blinds shut. "Can I help you, Sargent?"

Terry took a deep breath and released it through puffed cheeks. Was this the right thing to do?

There was no telling. But it was really the _only_ thing he could do. He hesitantly took a seat on the opposite side of Holt's desk.

"We need to talk about Detective Peralta..."


	5. Rosa's Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS. I told you I was excited to write Rosa's. This backstory was the idea that sparked this entire story in the first place and I was so happy to finally be writing it that I hyperfocused through it? And I was right, it was the easiest to write and imo the best chapter of this whole story including the two I haven't even written yet? And it's 1,400 words long and the rest of the chapters have been 500-900?! I'm v happy with the way this turned out and amazed at myself for writing an entire 1,400 word chapter in only the couple of hours since I posted the last one. 
> 
> Please enjoy this!! I'm v happy with how this one turned out
> 
> (but be warned this one is sad. Writing it made me sad)

Rosa remembered her.

She remembered the girl from her sophomore year of high school who always sat close to the board because being closer to the teacher's voice helped her stay in the moment. She remembered the girl who bounced her leg and sighed and stared at the clock during tests. She remembered the girl who was constantly belittled by the nuns in the middle of class for not doing this right, or that right, or anything right. She remembered the girl who was laughed at, labeled as stupid, an outcast, a lost cause. She remembered the girl who was mocked and ridiculed and pushed until she took a single step off the school roof at 9:00 on a Saturday night, and never went home to her father and her dog again.

But mostly Rosa remembered herself, and how she'd sat in the back of the class and ignored it all. How she'd walked through the cafeteria with her head down and her mouth shut and ignored it all. She must have born witness to the bullying hundreds of times that school year, but Rosa was a good student. She was a good student because she was quiet, she worked hard, and she listened. She wanted to keep it that way.

That girl was the polar opposite of her in so many ways, but she was nice. She smiled at Rosa in the halls and bought her a chocolate bar to say thanks on the days she had to borrow Rosa's notes - nobody else would let her - because she'd spent the entire class period doodling and chewing on the end of her pencil. It wasn't even that she was a bad kid. She was never trying to misbehave. She was just...different.

Rosa remembered Tara Diane.

Of all the lives she'd failed to save in her life, Tara's would have been the easiest. But Rosa didn't. Nobody did. And now she was gone.

"I have ADHD," she'd whispered in study hall one day as she discreetly returned a notebook of math notes, after Rosa asked her why she never wrote her own. "I'm not...trying not to take them. Sometimes I do. It's just...hard, I guess?"

Tara had bitten her lip and looked anywhere but at Rosa, clearly waiting for the judgement of her classmate to fall. It seemed like she'd had this conversation more than once before.

"Okay," Rosa had said with a simple shrug. "But I still want my Snickers."

Tara had beamed at her, positively radiating joy. It made something inside of Rosa sting with regret when she later realized that was probably the first positive reaction she'd received from a classmate in years, if not ever.

Rosa bore the memory of her halfway/sort of/not really friend as a lesson. Multiple lessons, in fact.

Lesson one: just because a person glows with happiness and sunshine and excitement does not mean they are okay. Nobody is going to always be okay. Some people are okay much less often than others.

Lesson two: don't make friends. Don't get attached. If you fail to see past their sunshine and something happens, you will add it on to the guilt and regret piled on your shoulders and Rosa doesn't know how many more Taras she can carry.

Lesson three: do not be the sunshine. Be cold, be brutal. Do not be deceptive about how you feel, because you might become somebody else's Tara. And that is a curse she wouldn't wish on anybody.

When she started at the Nine-Nine, to be closed off was Rosa's goal. She would come to work, she would do the work, and she would go home. She wasn't there to make friends, she was there to catch criminals and save lives to make up for the one she couldn't. That was exactly the way she liked it.

And it stayed that way for months...until a young, loud, impulsive, sunshine-smiling Jake Peralta rolled into the precinct.

Jake was loud but he was smart. He was arrogant but he was kind. He was impulsive but he was usually right. He resisted authority but he was a good enough detective that none of them really minded. He was so much like Tara in so many ways. He wasn't exactly like her, but he was close enough to rip the scab off those old wounds.

Rosa wanted to punch him in the face. She hated him. She hated everything he represented, everything he reminded her of, all the good things that perished from the earth the night Tara did.

Boyle joined their precinct next, followed by Terry, then Amy, then Jake fought to secure a secretary job for his childhood friend, a quirky, cold bitch named Gina. Eventually, Holt joined their ranks as well - the final missing piece to a puzzle. They were a mismatched group of weirdos and dopes, but something about it felt right; like this was the way it was always supposed to be.

And then Rosa broke her own rule: she got attached. She got attached to them and their weirdness, because they made her laugh and very few people could do that, and they didn't quite understand Rosa but at least they never tried to change her. They were okay with her being exactly who she was. She would murder somebody in cold blood without a second's hesitation if they ever pointed this out...but she loved them. They were her friends.

And then Jake began to change.

The detective she'd known for years and grown to like, the loud and funny and enthusiastic man they all knew, started to pull away from them. He withdrew into himself, became a social hermit. He was quiet, and sad, and tired. And Rosa didn't hate him anymore - she hated herself.

She hated herself for making the same damn mistake all over again, for letting herself get close to somebody just because they were sunshine and happiness and she wanted to, because now that person was going to be ripped away from her just like they were before. Just like they always were. And this wouldn't have scared her the way it did or made her feel so damn much if she had just. Kept. Her. Distance.

Now Rosa feared she might have to pay the price of carrying another Tara. But she'd be damned if she stood by and watched somebody slip away like she did so many years before.

She wasn't letting go without a fight.

"What the _hell_?" Jake squealed in surprise as she pulled him by the ear into the break room, slamming the door and lowering the blinds behind them. Rosa let go of his ear and pushed him toward the table.

"Sit," she commanded. Jake stood staring at her, jaw dropped in shock. " _Now_."

Smartly, he obeyed. Rosa leaned forward and slammed her hands on the table in front of him.

"Listen up," she snarled. "I know you're going through some shit or something, because you're walking around here looking like somebody kicked your puppy - don't interrupt me!"

Jake was about to protest, but now he snapped his mouth shut as quickly as he'd opened it. His eyes held a spark of anger. Good. He had fight left in him.

"I know you've got something going on - don't deny it, everyone knows - but I swear to God, if you so much as _think_ about putting that shiny gun to your head, or throwing yourself off a bridge, or _anything_ -"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jake shouted over her ever-raising voice. "Why would I -"

"What did I say about interrupting?" Rosa growled. "If you even _think_ about it, I'll kill you. If you do it, I'll bring you back to life just so I can kill you again, you understand me, Peralta?"

The room fell silent. Jake stared at her, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Rosa could feel her hands shaking. She crossed her arms over her chest to hide the tremor.

"Well, I don't think you have to worry about that, but fine," Jake said. "Are we done now?"

"Almost," Rosa said, several notches calmer now. She cleared her throat and broke eye contact, looking pointedly at the wall behind him. This was the hard part. "If you... _want_ to do any of that shit? You'd better call me. Understood?"

Jake closed his mouth and pursed his lips. His eyes suddenly looked suspiciously like they were watering. God, crying was not on the agenda.

"Understood," he said quietly. "I - yeah. I will. I promise. We good?"

Don't be another Tara. Don't let it happen again. Please.

"Yeah, Peralta. We're good."


	6. Holt's Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY BABY NEPHEW IS HERE. My mom woke me up at 2 AM to tell me me sister was in labor and he was born at 6:19. I haven't even seen him yet. She lives 90 minutes away. I'll get to see him in person in like 3 hours and I'M SO EXCITED. He's such a tiny baby, 6.5 lbs??? Bless, I love him already.
> 
> Anywho HERE IS Holt's Hot Take. Enjoy!

After thirty long minutes of discussion, Raymond Holt leaned back in his chair and ran a hand down his face, rubbing the sudden weariness out of his eyes. He could feel the headache already beginning to throb behind his temples. Peralta never did anything the easy way, did he?

"I see," he said after a moment of silence. "And all this has been going on for...?"

"About a month," Terry supplied. "That we've noticed, at least."

A month. Roughly the same month in which Holt had seen, much to his aggravation, a significant delay in Peralta's already questionable levels of productivity. He should have known something was up. Peralta annoyed him to no end, but he'd never been a slacker - and he was, as it turned out, suffering.

Holt was no stranger to the darker, deeper aspects of police work. He came from a time when the idea of caring for one's mental health was something to be laughed at. It had been five times as bad for him, and the very few others like him on the force.

He wasn't a very emotional person. He never had been. He was raised in a formal household, lived a formal life, and kept his "eyes on the prize," so to speak. But even he could acknowledge the importance of one being in a right mental state in this field of work. One wrong move could cost you your life. Holt knew that all too well: he had witnessed it happen to many men over the years who, looking back with today's medical knowledge in mind, likely suffered from PTSD and depression.

Holt carried a lot of heavy memories, the deaths of suffering officers who were told to "suck it up" and "be a man." As much as Jake Peralta drove him mad, he had grown to - really, he never thought he'd say this - like the young man, along with the rest of the squad. The very last thing he wanted was to add Peralta's name to the long list of regretful, unnecessary deaths he'd witnessed.

And yet, had the rest of the squad not taken note of Jake's odd behavior, Holt might have had to do just that. He hadn't noticed. Somehow, he of all people hadn't noticed.

One of his detectives, from his precinct, was falling apart on his watch. Not just any detective - Jake Peralta. A boisterous, excitable man who displayed an unbelievable excess of positive emotions on a daily basis.

The man who was, as it appeared, depressed.

Holt had scolded and yelled at Jake for a month while he suffered in silence, never having the slightest clue anything was wrong.

He knew something was wrong now. That was what mattered, he tried to tell himself. And there was absolutely something he could do about it.

"Thank you, Sargent Jeffords, that will be all," he dismissed. The Sargent rose from his seat but lingered, looking like he wanted to say something else, then seemed to think better of it.

"Of course," Terry said. "Thanks for your time, Captain. I hope we can...figure this out."

"Yes, as do I."

When he got home that evening, Kevin placed his hands on Raymond's shoulders and said, "You look upset. What's wrong?"

"Detective Peralta is...not well, mentally," Holt admitted. "The Sargent approached me to discuss it this afternoon."

"I'm very sorry to hear that."

"I didn't notice," he said flatly, the words a blatant display of emotion that made him feel sick. "I find it...difficult to understand how I could have missed something so urgent occurring in my own precinct, right under my nose."

Kevin shook his head as he fussed with his husband's collar.

"That isn't your fault," Kevin said. "People hide what they don't want others to see." Holt nodded. It was a perfectly reasonable conclusion.

"Yes, I suppose you're right."

Kevin smiled slightly. "Aren't I always?"

Raymond tried to enjoy his dinner with Kevin and push aside the unreasonable feelings of guilt. He found it very difficult.


	7. Jake's Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You GUYS. I'm gonna CRY. I've never finished a multi-chapter story before. Thank you all so so SO much for your kudos, comments, and bookmarks. I was very pleasantly surprised to see so many people interested in the story. 
> 
> Somebody commented that they were sad this story was almost over. Well NO WORRIES. I'm going to start a collection of ADHD Jake stories. I love this headcanon so much and it's one of the most fun things to write ever.
> 
> That being said this chapter isn't the best but I'm okay with that because I'm so happy I finally finished with it. PLEASE ENJOY. There are more ADHD Jake tales to come!

His brain was broken.

After thirty-three years of taking one step and being knocked back two, of feeling like even gravity itself must be working against him, all the while watching his peers walk the same challenges like a casual evening stroll, this was the only conclusion Jake could come to. His brain was broken. Something in his head wasn't firing correctly.

Or he was just stupid. And lazy. And untalented. That was also a very real possibility. The more likely one, if he wanted to be realistic about it.

He knew everyone was worried about him. He felt like an ass for brushing them all off, but honestly? It wasn't worth it anymore. Working three times as hard to halfway keep up with them wasn't worth it. It was hard, it was painful, it was impossible. He was done.

Let them be worried, Jake thought sometimes. They wouldn't be forever. Eventually they would realize that there wasn't anything particularly wrong with him, he just wasn't as good as them, ever, at anything. It wasn't within his control. It wasn't a problem they could solve. Not everyone could be smart; he was just another one of the unskilled, bumbling idiots they arrested every day for their stupid stunts and sad addictions. The sooner they all realized that, the better off they would be.

He would probably lose his job and all the friends he'd ever known due to his gross immaturity and incompetence, of course - but not everyone can be great. It's a fact of life. He saw no point in trying to change it.

His brain was broken, and it couldn't be fixed. So Jake was done trying.

He didn't smile or laugh or joke, or socialize in any positive way. How could he? His chest was tight with the constant anxiety of waiting for the gabble to fall, for them to figure out what he already had: that he'd somehow managed to bullshit his way into a job and a friend group he was so clearly undeserving of. It could happen any second. He could be fired (ostracized, rejected, abandoned) at literally _any_ second

So excuse him for not smiling. The world was not sunshine and rainbows and kittens like Jake used to pretend it was.

He was drinking...a lot. A few days ago, Jake had made the mistake of believing for a brief moment that all was not yet lost, and let Boyle drag him out for drinks. Boyle wasn't aware of the cheap beer cans that took up all the space in his fridge in place of food. Boyle dragged him home before an hour was up, too kind and gentle and worried as he helped Jake up the stairs to his apartment and told him to get some rest and feel better.

Feel better. God, he would kill to feel better.

With all of this in mind (always on his mind, never leaving his mind) Jake wasn't very surprised when the whispers started. He wasn't surprised when he began to hear hushed conversations centered around his name, and when people placed comforting hands on his shoulder for a second or two as they passed his desk. They were figuring it out. He was an incompetent, dead-end loser, and they felt sorry for him.

The gabble was about to fall.

Jake thought it might have fallen when Terry went into the Captain's office on a Monday afternoon, locked the door, shut the blinds, and came back out half an hour later looking twenty years older. He was _sure_ it had fallen when Holt stepped out of his office mid-morning on Tuesday and said, "Detective Peralta. I'd like to speak to you in private, please."

Amy shot him a look of pure, unadulterated pity. It made him want to punch something. Every eye in the precinct was on him in his peripheral, but when he went to make eye contact with anyone, they were all of a sudden very interested in their shoes and computer screens.

He was about to be fired, and everyone knew it. It was sad. But it was far from unexpected.

The Captain wasted no time in getting right down to it. He took his seat and leaned forward on the desk, fingers interlocked. Jake stood with his back facing the closed door. Sitting comfortably while being fired wouldn't feel quite right. He sort of wished Holt had closed the blinds, but everyone was going to know in a matter of minutes anyways. He was going to have to tell everyone out loud what they already knew, enduring several minutes of awkward goodbyes as he gathered his things. God, that was going to be torture. Jake braced himself, standing tense and silent.

_You've been slacking and I'm sick of it, you're done here_ , Holt was about to say. _Turn in your badge and gun downstairs. Gather your things and be out of here by noon._

"I'd like you to see a police psychologist for a full examination," Holt said. "It's mandatory. You're on strictly desk duty only until you've been cleared to return to the field."

Well. That was...not what he was expecting.

"That was...not...I... _what_?"

"Your team members are concerned for your health," Captain Holt continued calmly, ignoring Jake's confused stuttering. "And I'm inclined to agree with them. The psychologist who cleared Terry has an opening tomorrow at three. I'll give you the afternoon off, of course."

As Jake recovered from the shock, he decided not to tell the Captain that it was actually Gina who stamped Terry's clearance form while the psychologist sat passively and watched. That probably wouldn't help his situation.

"I thought you were going to fire me," he blurted out before he could think better of it. "I mean..."

"You're a good detective, Peralta. I'd rather keep you at the nine-nine, if I can help it. Should I confirm your appointment for tomorrow, then?"

Should he? Did he deserve a second chance? Did he need a psychologist to dig deep into his brain just tell him what he already knew (there's nothing wrong, he's just a grossly incompetent failure)?

Maybe. Maybe not. Might as well.

"Might as well."

"Good. You can delegate your field work to Diaz and Santiago for now. Dismissed."

* * *

**ONE WEEK LATER**

Jake's head was buzzing. He couldn't even tell what he was feeling. Shock? Relief? Dread? Every emotion all at once, probably. It was kind of like mixing all the colors of the rainbow together, only to realize with utter disappointment that they just made an ugly shade of mud-brown.

After three long, tedious sessions with a police psychologist, he had the answer to a question he'd never asked.

ADHD. A lifelong condition, she'd said. It explained a lot of crap about himself that he'd never, in thirty-three years of living, been able to explain. According to the psychologist, he wasn't stupid, lazy, or completely out of his mind (he wasn't quite sure he believed her on that). Maybe he didn't believe her on any of it. Maybe he didn't have ADHD. If he did, wouldn't somebody else have caught on by now? Maybe he was unintentionally faking it. Could you unintentionally fake something? Was that a thing?

Oh, and there was the depression. That was a thing too. A pretty big thing, apparently. Very common in ADHD, the psychologist said in her overly soft voice.

It was a lot to take in. There was so much to do and to try and to learn, and people to tell, and...he didn't even know where to start.

Jake knew this information was all supposed to help him. He just couldn't tell if it actually was. It felt more like a death sentence than anything. If you were scheduled to die, would you want to know? (If your brain was screwed up and improperly developed, would you want to know?)

On the bright side, he had bragging rights over Amy: for once, Jake had arrived to work long before her. Hours before her, in fact. The night shift beat cops were still mulling around, and dawn had barely broken. Granted, Jake wasn't actually there to work. He was there to sit in the empty briefing room and stare down a prescription bill bottle from across the table, like a perp. Maybe if he stared intensely enough it would spill all of its secrets.

Naturally, when Amy did show up precisely fifteen minutes early as usual, she found him. What luck.

"Oh," she faltered in the doorway when she saw him. Her eyes flitted rapidly between the bottle and Jake. She felt awkward around him now. It was his fault for being such a dick lately, and Jake knew that full well, but her hesitance to be alone in a room with him for a mere few minutes was still hurtful. "I'm just...you know. Here for the briefing. Should I...?"

"You can stay," Jake said. He really didn't want her to, but he didn't want to push her away any further. He'd been doing enough of that lately. "I'm here, too. You know. For the briefing."

He gave her credit: she recovered quickly. Amy gave him a soft smile as she set her bag in a front row chair. "Jake Peralta is here early? That's a pleasant surprise."

"I've been here for two hours."

Amy blinked at him. Then she frowned. "What? Why were you up so early?"

Because he couldn't decide whether he wanted to take this pill or not, whether he wanted to know or not, whether or not he deserved the chance. And he wasn't supposed to take it past ten in the morning. He knew he'd need a while to think about it. Hence the early rising.

Or early getting-dressed-and-pretending-to-be-well-rested after lying awake all night, staring at the ceiling, trying in vain to reign in the torrent of emotion threatening to engulf him. Same difference.

Jake shrugged.

"Couldn't sleep." He hadn't meant to tell the truth, but there it was, on the tip of his tongue without his permission.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Amy said.

Jake knew she was trying to be friendly and helpful but honestly? He didn't want to talk to her about this. Or to anybody about this. He wanted to go back to living in blissful ignorance as a quirky man-child, the way he lived before he became depressed and made a mess of everything. He didn't want to be depressed, or have a deficit of attention, or have a detailed knowledge of the gears in his own head that always operated under the radar until right now.

He just wanted to be himself.

But it had become painfully clear to him at this point that just letting certain parts of himself be could only lead to disaster. And Amy deserved to know. The whole precinct did, after everything he'd put them through.

Maybe he should tell them all. Maybe he could be better and still be himself. That was the vocabulary word this week: maybe. Maybe maybe maybe. (It didn't sound like a word anymore, he hated it when words did that, it was so trippy and not in a good way.)

"Jake?" Amy asked. "You don't have to tell me what you're thinking. It's - kind of just an expression. But you can if you want to!" She tacked on quickly. "I'll totally listen."

"I have ADHD," the words slipped out before he could catch them, God, why did they always do that? Where could he buy a filter for his mouth? "That's what the psychologist said. That's...a thing. That's happening. That's what I'm thinking about."

Jake crossed his arms overtop the table and hid his face in them. She was silent, and a silent Amy was not good. He didn't want to see her reaction. He wanted to disappear, to fade away into the walls.

There was the sound of a chair scraping, shoes clicking on the floor, and Jake smelled Amy's flowery perfume as she took the seat beside him. A soft hand landed on his shoulder and it was enough to make him tear up right then and there because after everything he'd done, she was still so nice. They would probably all be so nice about it. He didn't deserve these people.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Amy asked. Her tone was as soft as her hands. He lifted his head.

"Maybe?" Jake cleared his throat, blinking his eyes rapidly. "I don't know. Rain check?" He wasn't sure he could get through a full sentence right now without crying and God, that was so embarrassing.

"Sure," Amy said without hesitation. "Do you want me to sit with you? Or would you rather be alone?"

How was she so good at this? "Can you just...stay, for a minute?"

"Yeah."

They lapsed into silence, with Jake trying to latch onto any one of the many thoughts and fears bouncing around in his head, and Amy rubbing his shoulder in silent comfort. He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes to ward off the rising headache. One very particular fear stood out above the rest.

"The psychologist sent me to a psychiatrist," he said after a few minutes of silence. He lifted his hands from his eyes and saw her gaze flicker knowingly to the pill bottle on the table. "He gave me medicine for it. It's just a starting dose. Anti-depressants, too."

Amy shifted in her seat at that.

"You're depressed?" She asked quietly. Jake snorted.

"You couldn't tell? Apparently everyone else could."

"I could tell," Amy said. "I just...didn't know if you'd figured it out yet."

Well, _now_ he had.

"I took the depression stuff," Jake said. "But I'm...not so sure about the ADHD stuff."

"You don't have to take it," Amy pointed out. "My neighbor's daughter has ADHD. She's never taken medicine for it. She goes to counseling, and her school gives her accommodations to help."

"But I want to try it."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I don't want to not be me."

Amy faltered. "What? Jake, I'm sorry, I'm not following."

It was very hard to follow him, he wanted to point out. He had a hard time following his own train of thought. If she followed it too, she might get lost.

"What if what they're calling symptoms are just...me?" Jake asked. "What if this changes me? I don't want to change. I just don't want to get kicked out of another apartment, or fired, or shot because I did something stupid and impulsive."

There was a lot of voice being given to the nail-biters Jake usually kept shut up in his head. But something about Amy made it easy to talk to her. She was nice. She wasn't judging him. She was just listening. So into the sunlight the nail-biters went.

"I think you're overthinking this. There's only one way to find out whether or not they'll help," Amy said quietly. Jake turned and caught her eye. She smiled. "Do you want me to get you some water?"

One way to find out. Sometimes maybe it was okay to be a little impulsive.

"Could you?"

"Sure."

It was a single step, and maybe it wasn't even the right step. But Jake was trying. That was more than he could say he'd done in weeks.

After one tiny pill was down the hatch, along with the entire bottle of water at Amy's request ("you really should drink more water anyway") some of his anxiety started to fade. Maybe it would help. Maybe it would make everything worse. Maybe it wouldn't do anything. (Vocab word, remember? Maybe maybe maybe.) Amy was right, though, she usually was. Sometimes the chance was worth taking.

"Can we not tell anyone else about this?" Jake whispered as others began to file into the briefing room. "Not yet, at least. I just need some time."

Part of him feared it was a poor thing to ask of her; she didn't have a great track record for secret keeping. He wanted to trust somebody, though, wanted to trust her. Trusting other people was not something he did often. It felt nice.

"If that's what you want," Amy whispered back. Jake nodded once in affirmation. "Okay. I won't tell anyone."

And he trusted her. It really was nice.


End file.
